


Breakfast in Bed

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agender Character, Love, Sex Toys, Trust, Wing Kink, wherein Aziraphale plays and Crowley lets him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-19 12:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: He has worked with great enthusiasm through various configurations with the little device Crowley presented him with, both with and without human genitalia, assessing the bodily responses and enjoying them all to their various degrees. Sometimes, Crowley joins him, sometimes he simply watches and sometimes, he just laughs and leaves Aziraphale to ‘get on with it’.However, Aziraphale can’t help but notice that he has only been cataloguing his own responses, which hardly seems fair at all. It’s been rather selfish of him, he muses, as he stands in the doorway of the bedroom, watching the first touches of sunlight creeping in over the sleeping demon.The tables must be rebalanced.





	Breakfast in Bed

Aziraphale is, by his very nature, a methodical creature.

He is very thorough, particular when finding out the things he likes and the things he does not. After all, one must be sure of trying a little bit of everything to be certain one has not missed out on anything that one might enjoy. While not a great admirer of coffee as a drink, for example, he has an overwhelming appreciation for coffee-infused chocolates and cakes.

And so, his thoroughness spreads to other appetites.

He has worked with great enthusiasm through various configurations with the little device Crowley presented him with, both with and without human genitalia, assessing the bodily responses and enjoying them all to their various degrees. Sometimes, Crowley joins him, sometimes he simply watches and sometimes, he just laughs and leaves Aziraphale to ‘get on with it’.

However, Aziraphale can’t help but notice that he has only been cataloguing his own responses, which hardly seems fair at all. It’s been rather selfish of him, he muses, as he stands in the doorway of the bedroom, watching the first touches of sunlight creeping in over the sleeping demon.

The tables must be rebalanced.

He finishes his cup of tea, a rather nice oolong, tidies up the kitchen, then returns to the bedroom, where Crowley is still sprawled out on his belly, a pillow hugged beneath his head, his hair spilling loose from his night-time braid.

Aziraphale sits down on the side of the bed beside him, reaching over to smooth some loose strands back from Crowley’s cheek. The demon grumbles sleepily, but turns his head to nuzzle at Aziraphale’s fingertips.

“Good morning, dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs, brushing his knuckles along Crowley’s cheek. “Slept well?”

Sleep-hazed golden eyes open a crack. “Mm.”

Aziraphale leans down and kisses him lightly on the cheek. “I would like to give you a gift, if I may.”

The golden eyes open a little more and Crowley made a curious sound. He’s not a morning person, not by a long shot. If he’s lucky, Aziraphale will get a syllable out of him by ten o’clock, but before then, grunts, growls, hisses and, occasionally, something that is almost a purr.

“You don’t have to move,” Aziraphale continues, gathering the loose strands of Crowley’s hair, drawing them back from cheek, throat, brow. “You need only lie there and allow me to indulge you.”

Crowley nods, lips curving over his teeth. “Mm.”

“Oh good.” Aziraphale smiles happily. He squeezes Crowley’s shoulder as he gets up. “Top off, I think.”

By the time he gets back from the dressing table, his dressing-gown pockets well-laden, Crowley’s pyjama top is nowhere to be seen and Aziraphale pauses by the bed to admire the freckles dotted like stars all over his lover’s skin. He really is quite lovely to behold.

“Are you quite comfortable like that?” he asks.

“Mm.” Crowley gives a small and pointed wriggle downwards, indicating that yes, he’s comfortable and no, he’s definitely not moving anywhere.

Aziraphale can’t contain his smile. “Excellent.” He leans over the bed, folding down the blanket a little way to Crowley’s hips, then smooths it there. “I notice you didn’t just get rid of the top,” he observes with a chuckle.

Crowley makes a vague sound, shoulders twitching in a shrug, then rubs his cheek on his arm.

Aziraphale unties his dressing gown cord to allow a little more movement and climbs onto the bed, straddling the demon’s hips, which earns an interested sound from Crowley, who is watching him curiously from the corner of his eye.

“Patience,” the angel says happily, dipping a hand into his pocket. He wants to start gently, because Lord knows Crowley needs a little more time to wake up properly. The bottle of oil is barely the size of his thumb and he applies a couple of drops between Crowley’s shoulders, then tucks it away again. “Now, let me know if this is all right.”

He spreads his hands on the freckled expanse of Crowley’s shoulders, spreading the oil downwards and out and feels the soft, pleased rise and fall of Crowley’s ribs beneath his palms. The demon shifts a little and flexes his fingers into the pillows as Aziraphale gently, gently begins to work at taut coiled muscles beneath his skin.

Up the nape of the neck, pressing slowly, back down in steady, deepening rhythmic circles, he kneads the tangled knots from Crowley’s shoulder. Tracing the ridges of his spine, splaying his fingers to explore and track every inch in shimmering trails.

Despite his human form, Crowley’s body ripples from time to time beneath Aziraphale’s, his face now utterly buried in his arms. The small, muffled sounds he makes are so quiet, but all the more beautiful for it.

Aziraphale drags his thumb from the lowest curve of Crowley’s back to his nape, then slips his fingers beneath the coil of a braid to slowly knead at Crowley’s neck.

“Your wings, my dear,” he murmurs softly. “They need tending too.”

He leans back as Crowley’s power ripples and all at once, those beautiful black wings are all around him, the feathers glistening like a starling’s in the morning light. Even now, Aziraphale hesitates to touch, mesmerised by them.

He smooths his hands along the leading edges, following the line of the feathers, then kneads back down from the outside in to the root of the wings on Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley’s whole body is a coiled spring now, his visible hand white with tension on his upper arm. Aziraphale nips on his lower lip as he adds a little more oil, then _presses_ both thumbs against the strong length of muscle at the base of each wing. Crowley makes a sharp, muffled sound, his upper back arching into the touch.

That’s… good. Oh, that’s _lovely_.

“Darling,” he says softly, “May I try something?”

The sound Crowley makes borders on the obscene, a sharp emphatic nod visible in the fall of his braid onto the pillows.

Aziraphale slips his hand into his other pocket, drawing out the toy Crowley gave him. It feels peculiar, to call it a toy, but what is it if not something to play with and have fun with? He holds it a hair’s breadth from the narrow strip of skin between Crowley’s wings and leans back to avoid any incidental reactions, then presses the on button.

Crowley’s whole body spasms as if electrified and Aziraphale whips his hands away, alarmed.

“Too much?” he asks urgently, leaning closer and pressing his hand to the tender skin. Lord, he should have made his intentions clear.

Crowley is quivering but make a small, urgent noise. He somehow manages to unfold one arm, reaching back and emphatically patting between his shoulders.

“Again?” Aziraphale exhales, relieved.

There’s another, even more emphatic slap of fingers to shoulders.

“Of course,” he breathes, leaning down and planted a kiss between those quivering wings, making Crowley squirm even more demandingly beneath him. Perhaps it’s a little naughty of him but he draws back his lips and scrapes with his teeth and Crowley’s whine shoots up several octaves in pitch.

“Lovely,” he breathes against the now-damp skin. “So very lovely.”

The blush that spread across Crowley’s visible skin is beautiful as a sunrise and Aziraphale sits back to admire it. Such beauty deserves a reward, so he twists his fingers into the cord of his little toy to ensure it won’t skitter out of his grip and lowers his hand to let the very end of the buzzing tip brush so lightly between Crowley’s wings.

Crowley’s body jerks so violently Aziraphale almost falls forward over him and has to steady himself with his other palm on Crowley’s heaving ribs.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, stroking his hand tenderly along Crowley’s shivering ribs.

Another tap of fingers between bare, freckled shoulders.

Well, if Crowley wants him to stop, he clearly will make his feelings known.

“As you wish…”

He dips his hand again, lower this time, to allow the toy to fall full-length between Crowley’s shoulders. His back arches so perfectly, tense for the plucking and teasing. Aziraphale drags his hand lightly up and down, watching, mesmerised, as Crowley shivers and curves demandingly towards it, his body moving in ways no humans ever could.

“Oh, my dear…” the angel breathes, stroking his hand along Crowley’s ribs. “My _dear_…” He hesitates, only for a moment, then lifts his fingers to caress the quivering breadth of Crowley’s left wing as he presses his other palm down, pushing the toy close to the base of that wing.

Both wings flare, almost knocking him on his back, and he hears the crash of trinkets and ornaments and quite possible the curtain rail on the floor. But Crowley isn’t resisting or protesting, so he crawls back up and does it again to the other wing, the buzz of the toy humming into feathers, as the demon makes short, sharp noises, his hips twitching under Aziraphale, his feet scrambling and kicking under the bedding.

“I have you, my love,” Aziraphale soothes, sliding up over him, until he’s all but astride Crowley’s ribs, kneeling high over him to tease along the sensitive muscles of long-neglected wings. “I’ll take care of you, you know I will.”

The sound Crowley makes is somewhere between moan and wail, his arms folded over his head, his fingers sunk into his hair. Aziraphale can’t help but reaching out and stroking his fingers, squeezing them, in love, comfort, affection. Crowley uncurls one finger to tug at his, then releases it, his body rocking under Aziraphale’s.

“More?”

The nod is barely visible, but it’s there and Aziraphale smiles. It is time, he thinks happily, to utterly spoil the demon with his lovely, lovely present.

It’s a delightful game, teasing and testing and seeing what makes Crowley freeze and what makes him wriggle and shiver as if he might change into another form. The base of the wings are very sensitive. So too are the softly-feathered undersides. A touch of the toy there and Crowley’s ribs heave as if he’s struggling for air.

With tantalising care, Aziraphale teases the buzzing device on every part of those lovely wings, above and below. Sometimes, he adds teeth, sometimes lips, sometimes only hands, and not once does Crowley make any sound of protest. Only soft, urgent, wanting sounds escape him, half-smothered in the pillows and his arms.

When scales flare across his shoulders and nape, Aziraphale knows to slow and return to gentle, kneading touches, untangling the fresh knots of tension his teasing has created. Crowley is breathing hard, limp beneath him, his fingers still twisted up in his hair.

“If there’s anything you would like,” he murmurs, indulging himself in loosening and untangling Crowley’s braid, fanning his hair out like burnished copper, “anything you ever want, you know you can ask.”

He rubs both thumbs from the nape of the demon’s neck to the base of his skull, smiling as Crowley rolls his head forward, stretching out his lovely neck, offering himself, submitting himself. Aziraphale leans down and softly kisses the exposed skin, following the path of his thumbs back down, though it does mean he has to slide further down Crowley’s body.

The fine patina of scales follows the valley of his spine and Aziraphale, as he is fully aware, is too thorough to leave any part neglected. One day, he thinks he would like to spend a little time seeing how sensitive those scales might be, but for now, he lavishes tender kisses between shoulders, over ribs, lower, where spine curves downwards and his hands frame bare, smooth hips.

“Lovely,” he murmurs again with a last kiss, then sits back on his heels.

Too late, he realises his mistake, for Crowley has propped himself up on his forearms and is watching, eyes gleaming gold fire over his shoulder. He’s bare now, unhindered by an angel propped over him. In a snake-fast motion, his whips his bare legs from beneath the covers, coiling around to face Aziraphale, a hungry glitter in his eyes.

“Oh…” Aziraphale’s mouth is suddenly dry as Crowley’s hair slips forward around his shoulders and he starts crawling towards Aziraphale. “Oh, my.”

Crowley’s lips draw back from his teeth in satisfaction as Aziraphale finds himself backing away, backing away until he finds himself caught between the demon and the bedpost.

“Er…”

Crowley lunges, pinning him there, one of his hands above Aziraphale’s head, gripping the post, his face so close they could breathe the same air. Crowley growls softly, low in his throat, then lifts his other hand, cradling Aziraphale’s cheek. It’s so tender, Aziraphale cannot help but lean into it, then cries out in surprised pleasure when Crowley’s lips latch onto the other side of his throat.

It’s as far from tender as it’s possible to be, marking, claiming, hungry and sharp. There are teeth and there is a pleasant pain that makes the angel’s feet skitter against the tangled covers.

The bites move downwards and Aziraphale feels frozen, dazed, awed, as he meets those golden eyes. Ensnared, he knows. Enraptured. Even when Crowley grasps the front of his pyjamas in both hands, even when he wrenches them apart, fabric ripping, buttons scattering.

“Oh!”

The demon grins at him, then lowers his head and presses those wicked, wonderful lips to his belly. It’s– oh, it’s not tickling, not this. Sharp and stinging and burning and Aziraphale groans through clenched teeth, sinking his fingers into Crowley’s hair. The warmth of it, heavy silk brushing his skin, the hot wetness of Crowley’s mouth, the creak of the bed beneath them, it’s– it’s a– oh, so much, it’s so much.

He presses back against the bedpost, his head knocking back against the wood, his whole body pressing towards Crowley, towards his lips, towards the hands that are keeping him in place, keeping him from moving, irresistible force pinning him where he is.

It feels like mercy when those lips ascend, bite by stinging, aching, throbbing bite. He’s bruised and tender and raw and God, it’s delicious and when those wicked lips find his, his kisses are clumsy and needy and demanding.

And the hands on his hips move, slipping lower and he cries out in surprise against Crowley’s mouth when he’s lifted bodily into the demon’s bare lap. Crowley insinuates himself closer until Aziraphale is utterly pinned, trapped between body and post, bare arms caging him, leaving no room for escape.

Crowley licks his lips gently, soothing bites that sharp, serpent teeth have wrought, and gazes at him, swaying gently from side to side beneath him, his expression one of utter satisfaction, his eyes heavily lidded and hypnotic. His hair is a cascade of fire in the morning sun and Aziraphale’s breath is utterly stolen by the beauty of him.

What could he do – what could anyone do – but wrap his quivering legs about his lover’s waist, sink his fingers deeper into that wonderful hair and pull Crowley’s mouth back to his? Crowley makes a soft, pleased sound against his lips, the fire banked to lazy pleasure, and they speak without words, kiss after tender kiss, stealing one another’s breath and enjoying one another, minute by minute, until the sun is high and the clock strikes another hour.

Aziraphale leans back as much as the bed post will allow, drawing a hand from Crowley’s hair to caress his cheek. “Good morning.”

Crowley nuzzles his palm with a still-drowsy smile. “Mm.” He brushes his hand along Aziraphale’s thigh, then gives him a sharp swat on the backside.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims, squirming up in his lap. “What was that for?”

Crowley gives him That Look, the one that says ‘you know very well what you did’, his eyebrows arching and daring Aziraphale to contradict him.

Aziraphale juts out his lip. “If this is because it was quite early…” The hand on his backside gives a squeeze and he makes a face. “You could’ve said to wait.”

The eyebrows inch a little higher, which shouldn’t be possible. Crowley only has so much brow to use.

Aziraphale widens his eyes in a show of utter contrition. “I’m very sorry, my dear. I’m a terrible angel.” The fact that he wraps his legs a little tighter about Crowley’s waist, pulling them flush against one another is neither here nor there.

Crowley’s lips twitch and he brings up both hands to gently frame Aziraphale’s face, his expression so soft and warm he looks utterly angelic. He very, very tenderly kisses the tip of Aziraphale’s nose and Aziraphale cannot imagine being happier anywhere else in the world.

It’s another half an hour before they eventually untangle from one another. Honestly, it’s astonishing they get _anything_ done these days. Aziraphale gathers up the tattered scraps of his pyjamas, but Crowley meanders off, naked and unashamed into the kitchen.

As soon as he is out of sight, Aziraphale glances at himself in the mirror, a peculiar frisson of delight passing through him at the array of delicious little marks all over his body. They’re tender to the touch and he can’t help but trace his fingertips over every one of them.

When he eventually follows Crowley through, there is a fresh cup of tea on the counter and Crowley is sprawled on the couch, a mug of black coffee in his hand, looking far more awake.

“You know, angel,” he murmurs, one leg flung over the back of the couch, his other hand tucked behind his head. “You’re still a complete bastard sometimes.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “I have no idea what you mean, my darling.”

The smile that lights Crowley’s face is utterly dazzling. “Course you don’t,” he said happily. He wriggles up on the couch to give Aziraphale room to sit by him. “One favour, though?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale doesn’t take the offered vacant spot, instead, sliding himself snugly between Crowley’s splayed thighs and leaning back against him.

“Next time,” the warm murmur ripples against his cheek, “coffee first. I want to be able to appreciate it.”

Aziraphale nestles back against him happily. Next time, hm? “Coffee first,” he agrees. “I’ll remember.”

Crowley kisses his ear. “You’d better,” he half-growls, “or I might need to take vengeance.”

There’s something in that growl that sends a delightful shudder through him from head-to-toe. “Oh. Oh yes.” He clears his throat. “That would be bad. Very bad. Can’t have that.”

“I can read your mind.” He feels the smile against his throat. “_Naughty_ angel,” Crowley purrs, and he can’t help but agree.


End file.
